’But it wasn’t made in America.  It was made in the War Prison, over yonder at Princetown, where they keep the convicts now.  I’ve heard the man that drew and cut it out was a French sergeant, with only one arm.  He had lost the other in the war, and his luck was to be left until the very last draft.  He finished it the morning he was released, and he gave it to the young American—­Adams, his name was—­ for a keepsake.  The Americans had to stay behind, because their war wasn’t over yet.

’It came to my grandmother in this way:  She was married to my grandfather that owned this very farm, and lived in this very house; and twice a week she would drive over to the prison, to the market that used to be held there every day from before noon till nightfall.  Sometimes my grandfather drove with her, but oftener not.  She could take care of herself very well.

’She sold poultry and pork, eggs and butter, and vegetables; lard sometimes, and straw, with other odds and ends. (The prisoners used the straw for plaiting bonnets.) Scores of salesmen used to travel to the prison every day, from Tavistock, Okehampton, Moreton, and all around the Moor:  Jews, too, from Plymouth, with slop-clothing.  But in all this crowd my grandmother held her own.  The turnkeys knew her; the prisoners liked her for her good looks and good temper, and because she always dealt fair; and the agent (as they called the governor in those days) had given orders to set aside a table and trestles for her twice a week, close inside the entrance of the market square, on the side where the bettermost French prisoners lived in a building they called the Petty Caution.

’But with the prisoners, though many a time her heart melted for them, she was always very careful, and let it be known that she never smuggled tobacco or messages even for her best customers.  After a while they got to understand this, and (though you may think it queer) liked her none the less.  The agent, on his part, trusted her—­and the turnkeys and the military officials—­and didn’t respect her the less because she never told tales, though they knew she might have told many.

’This went on, staid and regular, for close upon three years; and then, one fine October evening, my grandmother, after reaching home with her little cart, unharnessing and bedding up the donkey in his stable, walked out to the orchard, where my grandfather was looking over his cider apples, and says she to him,—­

’"William, I’ve a-done a dreadful deed.”

’My grandfather took off his hat, and rubbed the top of his head.  “Good Lord!” he says.  “You don’t tell me!”

’"I’ve helped a prisoner to escape,” says she.

’"Then we’m lost and done for,” says my grandfather.  “How did it come about?” And with that he waited a little, and said, “Damme, my dear, if any other person had brought me this tale I’d have tanned his skin.”  For I must tell you my grandfather and grandmother doted on one another.